


the grass does not appear afraid

by pathygen



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: (in a manner of speaking), Drabble, Gen, Horror, Islands Apart, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathygen/pseuds/pathygen
Summary: The Captain loves his daughter. The shadow that is Cassandra just wants him to be happy, before the sun sets low and sorrow comes to collect.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	the grass does not appear afraid

A new man comes to the island, and the new man ravages the beach. He digs and digs, until the tiny grains of sand burrow their way under his nails and salt coats his tongue and his lashes and the fine hair on his face. The surf comes in to fill the holes and the tide creates pools where tiny creatures in their shells take refuge and then are trapped when water recedes. The muddy, foamy pits provide a feast for seabirds, and they flock to the shore and poison the air with rackety noise.

The new man digs until the little-chief takes notice. The little-chief is angry. The little-chief is frightened. The new man, who built his career on a general inability to be swayed by most pleas, locks the little-chief away. His people do not notice. 

He finds the coin buried at the base of a shaded palm. It is a very normal tree.

🙙

The man is a Captain, though captain of what, no one is quite sure. It doesn’t matter, in the moment. The Captain drops the coin into the fountain, and he makes a wish. Nothing happens. He waits by the pool into the evening, until old wariness sets in, which is subsumed by the weariness, and a drag of disappointment and despair. When he finally leaves, the hope and the black feelings stay behind, and sink to the bottom.

A full gourd of coconut wine helps lull him to sleep. He was never much of a drinker, until recently. 

In the early morning, below the sound of the waves and insects, a pattern of small footsteps make their way across the tight space of the bungalow. Tiny hands gently clasp the sides of his face, the fingers slight and clammy. Something wet dribbles, drips onto his brow, and makes it furrow, and sharpens away the edge of sleep. The Captain only hesitates for a moment, before he opens his eyes.

_“Hi daddy.”_

🙙

The Captain loves his daughter. The shadow that is Cassandra just wants him to be happy, before the sun sets low and sorrow comes to collect. This is not something she strictly understands, not in the way that people usually comprehend such matters. She is four, and he is her father. She was the closest to the surface, when he paid the first toll and called out with want. 

The warlock’s people, roughly translated, called it the whistling well. They say it takes nine days for a stone to fall from heaven. Nine more, for something to swim up and up, from the depths of the other side. 

She knows, fleetingly, that the coin is not the final price. The warlock’s people never really understood transaction. 

The Captain wanted his child. He wanted a return— and so she is: an empty vessel that he may dote on, to correct a mistake she doesn’t understand, and can scarcely remember. There is nothing before her father to make him worry, to make him doubt. They have their days together in the sun and the sand, and the joyous games they share with the little leaf-people. She is loved, and he is happy, and she wants to stay. She forgets her sisters that are not sisters, and their approach. But at night, if she pauses, and she listens, she can hear the far off sound of running water.

On the seventh day, they go for a hike, and she rides on his shoulders and the sun warms her skin ( _skin! how strange, how new, how special_ ) and the sea air tousles her raven hair. They pick flowers, and he tells her stories of great battles and old knights, and assures her that she can be whatever, whatever she wants, when she is grown up.

Cassandra runs along the edge of the shelf, a leaf tied with grass wavering from her shoulders like a cape. When she slips over a fallen branch, she lands hard, and the knowledge of her reaction comes slow. She bursts into hiccuping tears the moment the Captain snatches her up, holding her to his chest, and asks to see the wrist she cradles.

She shows him. The scratch wells up, and smells like rain. 


End file.
